Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“Can you-” he abruptly cuts himself off as if he’s unsure about the phrasing. “Will you please turn around and look at me?”
Still holding my breath, I slowly pivot until my back is against the door, a rain drop landing on my glasses the instant its there.
“I just…,” his voice seems to choke up more the closer he gets. “I just…”
My heart violently pounds against my ribcage to the same rhythm of his cautious steps.
“Fuck,” Ry airily groans, eyes roaming every inch of skin they can capture, “you’re even more beautiful now than you were back then.”
The compliment successfully empties my lungs.
Paralyzes my vocal cords.
“I just um…,” the verbal struggle to finish his thought continues as he extends a hand to touch mine.
Oh god.
No.
Now, he’s too close.
Too real.
I flinch away before our fingers can have contact, which provokes fear to fly into his expression. “Pres, are you…,” his breathing shifts to a choppier pattern, “are you afraid of me?”
“Yes.”
Another raindrop lands on my cheeks, exactly where tears should go. They seem to be increasing in frequency giving me the perfect excuse to rush inside.
To separate myself from this.
Him.
“I swear I’m not that fucking guy anymore, baby. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
My response is mindless, “I know.”
I don’t know how I know, but I do.
I can feel it.
I can feel it in the very place I’ve always only been able to feel him.
Pushed by another unspoken emotion, Ry shifts his frame until his proximity has me anxiously gasping for air. “Fuck, I’ve missed you.”
One hand rushes out to stop him from inching closer yet in colliding with his rock-hard chest, feeling his rapidly beating heart, a confession comes tumbling from my parted lips. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”
There’s a crack of thunder in the sky warning me to go while my brain is still functioning.
While my senses and soul still stand a chance.
“Because I belong to you,” he declares, frame that’s bigger and wider and manlier than the smaller version I held so many years ago nestling against mine. “Because I belong with you.” The tips of our noses lightly brush. “Because no matter how fucking lost I get, I’ll always find my way back to you.” I drop my mouth to say something – albeit I don’t know what – when his hand curls around the nape of my neck with the same familiar precision. “You’re my home, baby.”
It’s impossible to tell if he pulls me into him or if it’s me pushing myself back into the only place I’ve ever wanted to be.
Our open mouths recklessly crash together at the same instant that the downpour begins. Within mere seconds my tongue is devouring tastes I haven’t had in what feels like an eternity and no matter how fast it moves or curls or sweeps, it still doesn’t feel fast enough.
Hard enough.
I need every last drop of Ryder Collins.
And I need it right.
Now.
How exactly we get into my townhouse is a mystery.
Between his mouth on mine and mine on his I’m not entirely sure how we’re even breathing let alone how we’re moving.
But we are.
The front door is slammed shut with a thud hard enough to shake the fucking foundation. Thunder cracks again as if applauding the action and pushing us to continue forward. To abandon the entryway for my first-floor master bedroom. To carelessly leave my workbag in our wake.
And my heels.
And his shoes.
And my soaking wet blazer that he hungrily yanks off my wobbly frame.
His pulling leads to my impatient tugging at the hem of his collared shirt on a toddler like pout, “Off.”
Ry arrogantly chortles, removes the wet cloth in one swift movement, and exposes not only a sculpted chest that proves his gym habit is still very much so still alive but an intricate broken clock tattoo with Roman numerals and pieces of it as well as calendar dates flying off it.
There’s so much detail.
Meaning.
Heartache.
I stumble in my steps to stop and touch the lost date that floats right over his heart.
It’s my birthday.
And the one floating off right beside it?
What was once our anniversary.
Gently stroking the numbers receives needy moans that grow into heavy groans. And those heavy groans transpose into almost feral growls when my fingers use the wet locks at the nape of his neck to ruthlessly yank him back down to me.
Our tongues resume their tangling, catching up on years of missed milestones and carving a clear path for new ones, while our steps proceed to stumble me backwards yet us forward.
Nervousness to my surprise is non-existent.
I effortlessly lead us to my room like this is something we do daily.
Like this is just another randomly long Thursday that we need to unwind from.
I nip needily at his bottom lip.
The corner of his mouth.
His jawbone.
I tease his tongue with playful swipes, keeping mine just out of his immediate reach at the same time I unbuckle his belt.